Longbottom
by HedwigBlack
Summary: "Your name's Longbottom?" It's the punchline of a joke that is never said aloud.


_For The Quidditch League Competition Round 4. I had to begin and end with the same word – a proper noun._

_Word Count : 1298_

_Optional Chaser Prompts: Frog, "Your words create what you speak about. Learn to speak positively." – Sanya Roman, swollen_

_It occurred to me that Neville and Barty Crouch were alone for a bit there in GoF, which is a bit unsettling if you think about it too much… So here's how I imagine that scene went._

* * *

"Longbottom."

Professor Moody gives Neville a calculating look. "Your name's Longbottom?"

Neville nods, wondering if the man realizes how much he hates it, the sound of his name. There's something bitter about the way it sits in a person's mouth, or perhaps it's just that he is tired of hearing Snape dangle it above his classmates' heads as if it were the punch line to a joke that is never actually said aloud.

But never mind that now. Moody places a spider on his desk, causes it to twitch in pain, and suddenly, Neville is not thinking about a spider anymore. He wonders what this must look like on a person's face.

His hands don't stop shaking. Not when the spider on Professor Moody's desk ceases to jerk its legs. Not when its swollen body is returned to its normal size. Not even when the lesson is over and he tries to pretend that he could possibly hungry after watching such a sickening display.

And then he hears his name again, and that unsettling blue eye is fixated on his face, and a gnarly, arthritic hand is ushering him away from his friends and dinner and safety, and all the tea in the world would not persuade him to go if he thought he had a choice.

Upon arriving at Professor Moody's office, the older wizard practically steers him into a seat in front of his desk, and Neville hears the click of the lock on the door, assuring him that blessed escape is impossible. Meanwhile a pot of water is put on to boil and an old tea set clatters against the wood, the cups chipped and faded. Professor Trelawney would be appalled.

Moody sits down in his own chair, his blue eye spinning in his head, occasionally stopping to focus on one part of the room or other. Neville tries very hard not to stare. He also tries very hard not to be obvious that he's trying not to stare. The eye lands on him, and does not move again, and it is then that Neville fails spectacularly.

Moody doesn't seem to mind.

"You think I don't know who you are," he says matter of factly. "You think I don't know your parents. Damn good Aurors they were, too."

Neville nods mutely, just barely managing to check the impulse to roll his eyes which is his automatic response to any mention of his parents. Merlin knows his Gran has reminded him on every opportunity she has that his parents were "damn good Aurors" and how he "ought to be proud."

"Oh, come on, Longbottom, don't look so glum. I'm just trying to make conversation," Moody says. "I didn't bring you in here to talk about them anyway."

He pours the tea with a little difficulty, and Neville takes it. For the first time, he's rather grateful for something warm and soothing, though he still has Moody's magical eye in his line of vision.

Moody doesn't take any tea for himself. Instead, he pulls out his flask from the depths of his robes and lifts it to his lips before wrinkling his nose at the contents and setting it aside.

"Do you like school, Longbottom?"

Neville furrows his brow. He doesn't think anyone has ever asked him that before.

"I suppose," Neville says finally with a shrug of his shoulders. "The common room is nice and…"

"No, no." Moody waves his hand in front of his face. "Your classes, I mean. Do you like your classes?"

"I…" Neville pauses, unsure of what the correct answer is. The honest answer is rather upsetting. "I'd like them more if I were any good at magic."

"And who says you aren't any good at magic?"

Neville shifts in his chair and looks down uncomfortably at his tea. "Everyone?"

"Nonsense!" Moody exclaims. He reaches down into a drawer and then places a few books on his desk. "Professor Sprout mentioned to me how impressed she is with your Herbology marks. Thought you might like to take a look at these."

"But Herbology isn't…" Neville chokes as Moody jerks his head up at the contradiction. "Herbology…doesn't…count."

"Why not? Why shouldn't it? It's not that you're not any good at magic. But if you want to believe that, then be my guest. Don't lose your frog."

Neville looks down just in time to see Trevor clamoring out of the top of his school bag. He sets his tea cup down and snatches the toad just in time before making another of his infamous escapes.

"Toad," Neville corrects, stuffing his pet into the pocket of his vest beneath his robes. "He's a toad."

"I say he's a frog," Moody says dismissively, but his lip curls slightly at the look of confusion on Neville's face. "But we could argue the point all day, and it doesn't change the fact that he's a toad, eh? And you can tell me you're terrible at magic but that doesn't make it true."

Moody sits back in his chair then, absent-mindedly raising a gnarled finger to where the bit of his nose is missing. "But I suppose magic works a bit differently, doesn't it? You can wave your wand around all you want, but if you don't mean the words you say, nothing's going to happen. Just like those Unforgivable Curses we talked about. It's not enough to say the words. You have to _mean_ them."

He pounds his fist on the desk to emphasize his point, causing the tea cups to clatter in their saucers and Neville to jump half off his seat.

"So, if you believe you aren't any good at magic, Longbottom, then I suppose you won't be. But I think you can be if you want. Positive thinking! And that all starts with the words we say to ourselves and to other people. So I don't want to hear anymore about you not being any good at magic, understood?"

Neville nods, attempting to ignore the flushed feeling about his neck.

"The words we use are important," Moody continues. He gets up and starts to pace, his wooden leg making a sharp clicking noise against the stone floor. "There's a reason those curses are called The Unforgivable Curses, you know. Just think for a moment. Do you believe you could ever forgive the Death Eaters who landed your parents in St. Mungo's?"

Neville shakes his head defiantly, his hand reaching into the pocket of his robes so that his fingers brush against a gum wrapper. Trash, his Gran calls it. Gum wrappers and newspaper clippings and pieces of string. Gifts in the form of trash.

"No," Moody says knowingly, and there is a glint in his good eye that is wild and unsettling and…well… _mad._

"No," he says again. "I suppose you wouldn't."

A noise from the corner grabs Neville's attention and he turns but there is nothing out of the ordinary that he can find- a half-empty bookcase, a stack of letters and copies of the Daily Prophet, a large trunk with several locks down the side.

Moody claps his hands together. "Well, I don't want to keep you from dinner, Longbottom. Just wanted to make sure you were…er… all right. Oh, and the books. Yes, the books."

The older man quickly shoves the Herbology books into Neville's hands, and ushers him toward the door.

"Er…thanks, Professor." Neville barely has time to say even this much before the office door is closed and he is left alone in the empty corridor. But in spite of the abrupt end to his conversation with Professor Moody, Neville cannot help but feel much lighter than he had an hour ago. And for the first time in a long time, it doesn't seem so shameful to be a Longbottom.


End file.
